


Once upon a lifetime

by seasidhe (sidhedcv)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Genderfluid Character, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-06
Updated: 2018-09-06
Packaged: 2019-07-07 20:08:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15915366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sidhedcv/pseuds/seasidhe
Summary: Arthur and Francis live in a universe where there's another life after death. One life, two lives, three lives, a hundred lives that no one remembers. No one except for Arthur.





	Once upon a lifetime

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Once upon a lifetime](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2638589) by [sidhedcv](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sidhedcv/pseuds/sidhedcv). 



> So. I wrote this fic _years_ ago and I've always wanted to translate it and... it looks like I finally managed to do it? And to be honest it's all because of [deerna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/deerna): if they didn't help me, this would've probably stayed an item on a to do list forever.  
>  Also: this work is inspired by the poem 25 lives by [tongari](https://tongari.livejournal.com).

_the very first time i remember you,_

_you are blonde and you don’t love me back_

 

“Jesus Christ, Arthur! When will you stop acting like this?” Francis yells, both desperate and furious, later than Arthur expected. He looks at him from behind the books he’s organizing and snorts, pretending to ignore Francis’ complaints. And this alone is particularly difficult, considering how high Francis’ voice can go — higher than anyone he has ever heard.

“You know, I’m not dumb, Kirkland—”

“Oh, really?” Arthur replies before he can stop himself, fully knowing that the consequences of this action will be terrible; the book that hits him straight on the head five seconds later is the proof he was absolutely right.

“Very funny. Terribly funny,” Francis adds with a sharp tone, hands firmly planted on his own hips. “Now tell me: where did you hide my books?”

“What books? I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Arthur replies immediately, without even looking at the other man. He’s just setting up his own shelf, nothing to see there.

The bookshop is far too wide, the biggest in the whole city. So huge that they can actually include a vast collection of foreign languages books: Spanish, German, Italian but mostly French. Arthur likes to pretend it’s all Francis’ fault: the cons of having a french co-owner. The truth is that he really, really likes adding books to that French section.

“This isn’t funny. Why do you think this is funny? I don’t get what your problem is,” Francis mutters in his mother language and, as usual, Arthur pretends he doesn’t understand a single word.

“I’ve already told you: I don’t understand your damn language. If you want to keep speaking French, you can go back talking to the wall,” he interrupts Francis’ sentence with the sharpest tone he can manage, standing up with a new pile of books in his arms.

In twenty minutes they’ll be opening the bookshop and Arthur knows far too well — they’re pretty much alike in this — that Francis hates being late. He knows far too well how much he hates when his books are not arranged in the exact order he had in mind before their clients arrive.

Arthur watches as Francis walks the whole length of the bookshop once, twice, three times, desperately looking for the books Arthur hid. He sighs theatrically and Arthur tries his best not to laugh. Golden locks sway gracefully in the air when Francis has to bend to check under a shelf — and Arthur has to force himself to look away from... _everything_.

Sometimes he wonders what his life would be like if he had the nerve to ask him out. Sometimes he tries to visualize a whole life made of different choices. What if, instead of being cold and indifferent for months and then suddenly becoming annoying — he damn well knows he’s being annoying —, he tried to behave like a normal human being? Maybe now he wouldn’t have to _imagine_ what would be like to go out with Francis.

“You are the worst.” And when Francis decides to stop looking for his books, Arthur finally steps in.

“I’ve already taken care of your books, that’s why you can’t find them.” And when he sees Francis’ pleasantly surprised look he hastens to add: “you always take way too much time”.

Francis groans loudly and Arthur still feels like a complete idiot.

 

_the next time you are brunette and you do_

 

“Will you ever stop with this dumb prank?” Francis mutters with the usual fake annoyance — the one that permeates half of what he says during a normal day. “I don’t get why you think this is funny.”

Arthur leans against the wooden shelf of the cookbooks section and for the umpteenth time in the last fifteen years of his life, he wonders if what’s happening is actually possible or if he’s just hallucinating. He has taken far too many tests and medical exams and apparently there’s nothing wrong with his head. His thought — his memories! — are simply _real_.

“Arthur, please, be a dear and tell me where did you put my books,” but Arthur pretends he doesn’t hear Francis’ voice. That memory comes from another life, a different life, a lost life: and yet every day those thoughts become more vivid and those memories become clearer and bolder. Until Arthur can’t avoid them anymore.

Trying to live a normal life while ignoring the relentless déjà vus that overlap even the simplest day-to-day moment is the hardest thing he’s ever done.

He had to learn how to coexist with the memories since he was a kid, but when he met Francis — in front of that old bookshop that was about to close — the situation became impossibile. Arthur knows he has already _lived this life_. He knows he has already met Francis — and it doesn’t matter that his hair now looks more like a warm golden brown.

Francis is still Francis: he knows he bought the bookshop because he loves him, he knows he started working with him because he loves him.

And while some memories played out exactly the same, some memories were completely different — thanks to his decisions and his actions.

“You’re lovely, when you want to,” Francis smiles, bending slightly over him and brushing his lips in a soft kiss. “Thanks for taking care of my books.”

“… You’re welcome,” Arthur whispers, almost stunned by that moment, before kissing him back.

He remembers his past life. He remembers asking himself again and again what was he supposed to do in order to _be_ with him. He remembers telling himself that all he had to do was to smile a little more and to frown a little less and to gather enough courage to ask him out.

And that’s exactly what he did, in this new life he was offered: he smiled a little more, frowned a little less and gathered enough courage to ask him out.

“I can’t wait to go home,” Francis smiles again and then leaves him to finish his work. Arthur’s mind wanders through the differences between that empty apartment of his past life and his new home, full of life and light.

Some things changed radically and Arthur doesn’t know exactly why. The only thing he can do is thank whoever decided he deserved a second chance to improve his life and make up for his mistakes.

 

_after a while i give up trying to guess_

_if the colour of your hair means anything_

 

The music in the club is so loud that many people are forced to move away from the amps, with sneers of annoyance painted on their lips. Arthur stays put, dangerously close to the source of the music, holding on his red cup of beer and staring at the middle of the room.

Loud music helps him _not to think_ and, honestly, in a moment like that every distraction is welcomed. On the other side of the club, surrounded by a dozen of dancing people, there’s a guy with a crazy hairstyle and a haircolor that goes from midnight blue to fucsia and from fucsia to dusty rose.

Arthur has been staring at his hair for twenty minutes and he really can’t seem to stop.

And it’s not about the color — his own head is half acid green, it would be very weird to be obsessed over someone else’s hair — or about the hairstyle. It’s just that Arthur is _sure_ he has already met that guy.

There’s something in his head that keeps screaming, since the moment he set foot in the club: _there, there he is, look at him, there he is!_ And Arthur would really like to know why his head thinks that a complete stranger is _that_ important.

He keeps staring at him, frowning every single time someone gets a little more closer to the guy, every time someone tries flirting with him. And then the stranger turns around and looks in his direction.

The epiphany hits him like a punch in the gut and for a few seconds his lungs can’t seem to function properly, leaving him gasping for breath in a really _not-so-cool_ way.

Francis is staring at him, from the opposite side of the room, and the guy who’s currently grinding against him isn’t enough for Arthur to look away.

Francis, Francis, Francis. Arthur’s mind doesn’t know any other words other than the name of the one person he loved in two past lives. Lives that he can suddenly recall — and he remembers _trying to remember,_ for God’s sake!

Everything changes in less than a second and the fact that Francis is there, in front of him — Arthur doesn’t really recall him crossing the crowd to get there — seems like the most natural thing in his life.

Francis is Francis, Arthur is Arthur and everything is as it should be.

“You wanna buy me something to drink?” Francis yells, trying to be heard over all the noise and Arthur just nods, following his lead.

Fear strikes hours later, when Francis is gone and all that’s left is a note with his number. Arthur can’t stop thinking how strange is meeting Francis under such different circumstances, in their third life together.

The relevance of that thought gets lost in the cold night’s air and in the promise of a call that maybe won’t come.

 

_because even if you don’t exist_

_i am always in love with you_

__

The fourth life is a wasted life, in every possible way.

Arthur spends his first twenty years waiting for Francis to appear and the next thirty years looking for him in all of London, England, Europe and then the rest of the world.

His travels never end and as the days go by — and Arthur loses count of weeks and months — Francis remains hidden in some part of the world Arthur has yet to investigate.

When he’s a fifty-five-year-old man, Arthur finally understand the fear he felt so often in the previous life. He finally gets that no gods and no laws can ensure him that Francis will exist in his world. No gods and no laws can ensure him that Francis will be at his side.

He keeps looking for Francis in China, in Colombia, in South Africa. He keeps wandering the world, ignoring the truth of what’s happening and the burning doubt that Francis doesn’t exist at all. The _idea_ of living a normal life without him doesn’t exist at all.

When he’s a sixty-five-year-old man, Arthur realizes a lifetime isn’t enough to travel the whole world in search of someone and that he will, most likely, be dead before he founds what he’s looking for. In his misery, the chance of a new lifetime isn’t enough to give him hope.

There are times when a distinctive thought comes back to haunt him: what if Francis remembers? What if Francis is also looking for him? What if they’re chasing each other, running around the whole world? Arthur can’t decide what’s worst between these options.

The memories haunt him day and night, without letting him go, and the idea of a lifetime without Francis becomes more and more absurd.

In a lifetime of loneliness, Arthur gets the chance to think this thoroughly: there has to be a common thread in everything that has happened to him. To them. They found each other in three different lives — and maybe more: Arthur doesn’t know if there were other lives before the first one he can actually remember — and that must mean something. That must mean they’re meant to be together.

Arthur can’t stop looking for him, can’t stop and won’t stop looking for him as long as his legs still work.

When he’s a seventy-five-year-old man, Arthur begins to see the first signs of exhaustion. Nevertheless he keeps searching, keeps telling himself he has to do it for Francis. Because Francis will also be miserable without him, because Francis is also hurting without him.

When he’s a eighty-five-year-old man, Arthur goes home, in England, and spends the last days of his existence remembering his past lives. The memories are the only sign of Francis’ presence in his current life and Arthur has learned to accept this.

He keeps his memories close to his heart and this lets him die peacefully.

 

_i remember most fondly those lifetimes_

_where we get to grow up together_

__

“Arthur, Arthur!” Francis yells and his voice spreads around, crossing the whole yard and reaching Arthur, who spent the last ten minutes hiding in a bush — with twigs and insects and leaves in his hair. “Arthur, where are you?”

Arthur keeps silent because no, he’s not dumb, thank you very much, and he hasn’t the slightest intention of letting him win hide and seek again. Not even when Francis keeps calling with that sad and miserable voice. No, thank you very much, he won’t be fooled again, no—

“I’m right here,” he mutters softly, as soon as Francis is close enough to hear him. It takes a few minutes and then the toothless smile of Francis — he’ll never stop making fun of those two front teeth so recently fallen — is right there, in front of him.

“I found you!” Francis laughs, crouching down and ignoring the next ten minutes of complaints: _it’s not like you really found me, though, I called you._

After a while, Arthur becomes suddenly quiet and tries not to pay attention to the way Francis is looking at him.

“Is everything okay? Are you mad at me?” But not paying attention to Francis is really hard, especially when he gives that sad, upset look.

“No, I’m not mad. Everything’s all right.” And how could he explain what’s happening inside his head? How could he explain every life they lived together — and the one in which they didn’t met? Francis is just a kid, Arthur is a kid only on paper.

His memories are all there, his feelings are all there and pretending to be a perfectly normal kid is very hard when it’s clear and obvious that this is not the case.

Francis keeps looking at him and sighs quietly, “if you say so”. He curls up against Arthur and hides his face in his knees. “Do you still wanna play with me?”

Arthur hates himself for what’s happening. An entire lifetime with him, he knows, is never simple. Francis will find it even more difficult to relate to him until he’s old enough and Arthur can’t stop wondering if this is already hurting him.

It’s not like he has other options: living another life without Francis is out of the question. The idea of growing up with him, on the other hand, fills him with happiness.

“It’s my turn to count,” Arthur whispers, softly brushing Francis’ hand and smiling as he sees the other boy running away happily.

It’s all worth it.

 

_when you share your secrets and sorrows_

_and hiding places with me_

 

“Do you really think it fits me?” Francis murmurs after a long silence, biting his lower lip with visible concern. He’s not looking at his own reflection in the mirror and he’s not even looking at Arthur.

“I think you’re beautiful,” Arthur replies with openness and honesty, trying to make him understand exactly what he feels and how sincere he is right now. Expressing his own feelings has always been one of his greatest difficulties and usually Arthur doesn’t really care: the people that matter in his life know how he’s like.

This situation is different, though: Francis’ happiness and well-being are at stake and Arthur would do anything to protect them. When Francis finally takes a quick glance at him and gives him that shy, almost amazed look, Arthur can’t help but feel relief washing over him. Francis touches lightly the fabric of the summer dress he’s wearing and in that moment a shadow falls over his face.

“You don’t think I’m…" Francis doesn’t finish the sentence but there’s a single word — the same word their schoolmates yelled time and time again — that hangs over them. _Weird_ , that’s the word. Arthur would like nothing more than make Francis understand how wrong that idea is. How far from the truth that idea is.

“I think you’re beautiful,” is all he can say, again, hoping this will be enough.

In this life, Arthur has no idea why, Francis has always been different: unhappier, quieter, knee-deep in feelings he couldn’t understand. Arthur has only just began to realize how deep those feelings really are.

He keeps wondering if this is a thing of this life only or if Francis has always had those feelings and simply didn’t talk about how he felt. He hopes this is not the case: he already think he’s inadequate and not enough for Francis. Knowing that the person you’ve always loved forced himself to hid something this big for six different lives — probably fearing Arthur wouldn’t understand — is terrible enough.

But that doesn't even matter: in this life Francis talked to him. In this life he managed to explain how he feels and now Arthur has to make sure Francis knows he’s loved and accepted.

“I bought you another one,” he murmurs against Francis’ hair, hugging him from behind and looking at their reflection in the mirror. “I thought you’d look lovely in it”.

And Arthur isn’t lying: he really think Francis is more beautiful than ever.

 

_i love how you play along with my bad ideas_

 

The house lights suddenly turn on, illuminating Francine’s silhouette and, more importantly, the spray can that she holds in her right hand. “Come on, let’s go!” Arthur whispers, alarmed, dragging her away from the driveway.

Francine laughs as Arthur starts running, still dragging her behind him, looking for the perfect hiding place; and, to be honest, he’s also trying not to laugh. It’s hard not to laugh when Francine acts that way.

When he finally decides they're far enough and stops running, Francine is still laughing and has to lean into him, trying not to lose balance.

“Tell me again whose house was that,” she finally manages to ask, when they both stop laughing; “and why did we do that?”

“He deserved that, that’s all you need to know,” Arthur replies, holding her close and thinking about how great that single word — asshole —, written in acid green, looked like against the white wall of the house. Francine laughs again and Arthur can’t help but smiling, holding her face in his hands right before kissing her. He won’t tell her that was the house of the asshole who made fun of her for years, in their previous life. How could he even begin to explain that?

He watches her fishing out her phone from the purse and answering some text with a lovely smile and he wonders once again what happened in this life, the first of seven lives, where Francis is Francine and everything else is almost the same.

She seems happy, though, and Arthur is happy too. She’s happy and she wants him at her side and that’s all he needs.

“Are we going back to your place? Or do we have some other property to deface?” Francine interrupts his thoughts in the best way possible: kissing him again. “Because, you know... I’d love to spend some time alone with you”.

“Absolutely nothing else to do,” he replies quickly, taking her hand and going back towards the house — now apparently full of life and one single police car. They should be far, far away from that mess. That much is clear.

Sometimes Arthur thinks it’s incredible she actually puts up with all his bullshit. He just hopes this will never change, that Francine will always love him and the foolish things he does.

Losing her is something he just couldn’t bear.

 

_before you grow up_

_and realize they are bad ideas_

 

“You've been out all night again,” Francine breaks the awkward silence that had fallen upon the room after Arthur’s last effort to start a conversation. She was already up when he finally managed to wake up and he has no idea what she’s thinking about right now.

“Not quite _all_ night,” he tries to minimize what happened, knowing fully well he’s wrong, knowing fully well she’s angry. There’s a part of him that want her to be angry, just to see exactly what happens.

What happens is Francine shakes her head without answering and looks at him with that disapproving look that Arthur knows way too well. When she finally talks — “You need to stop acting like a fool, Arthur, you’re not eighteen anymore, you need to grow up.” — Arthur forces himself to listen without talking. Things are bad enough as it is.

He should’ve learned not to take for granted everything he had in his previous lives: every time he does that, every time he thinks _well at least this thing is for sure,_ he just ends up empty-handed.

It’s so hard to live with a Francine so different from their previous life. It’s so hard having to come to terms with the idea that she grew up so much she now thinks he’s childish.

She’s right, he knows that. Arthur spends most of the day out, he doesn’t have a job, he doesn't seem to care about anything — and all those other complains he hears all the time and doesn’t want to hear anymore.

The truth is Arthur isn’t childish. The truth is Arthur is tired. Tired of spending life after life trying to fix his errors, tired of spending life after life without being able to just _stop_. Without being able to think _here, I’m happy now, this is how it ends._

He doesn’t know when this will end. He doesn't even know for sure this _will_ end. Maybe this is his destiny, from here to eternity. He feels he’s going crazy just thinking about this possibility and, without even noticing, he slumps into the chair with his eyes closed.

“Arthur…" Francine’s voice in a muffled sound, too far away to sway him, too far away for him to really care. “I just want everything to be okay again. Please.”

Arthur doesn’t answer. He stands up, after a few seconds, goes outside and closes the door and his mind behind him, without listening to Francine’s calls.

It doesn’t matter if she hates him in this life. He has an eternity of lives to bear and all the time in the universe to make up.

 

_(and in our times together_

_i have many bad ideas)_

 

The sound of the glass hitting the counter’s marble is as unpleasant as Francis’ voice behind him; the golden liquid spills all over the clean surface and drips, drop by drop, on the floor.

Francis sighs wearily and bends down to clean the mess Arthur has deliberately made, trying to look into the blank gaze of the other man.

“I’d like to know what I did wrong,” he whispers after a few seconds, trying yet again to calm himself and find a tone of voice that doesn’t annoy Arthur.

He does get annoyed anyway, obviously, because of the implications in that sentence and even because of Francis trying to be kind to him. He shouldn’t be kind, not to him, not now, not when he’s acting like that, not—

“Please, answer me. At least try to give me an answer,” Francis tries to anchor him to a reality that Arthur loathes, the same reality he had to bear for the past eight lives, the same reality he tries so hard to escape from.

He keeps quiet, as usual, choosing yet another sigh from Francis instead of a worthless attempt at voicing out loud thoughts he _has_ to keep for himself.

He laughs, at some point, without even noticing and without even knowing why; he laughs as Francis throws the towel away and just leaves, slamming the door behind him. Arthur keeps laughing and laughing until his throat starts hurting and he forgets what just happened.

“Francis…?” he murmurs in a hideous slurred speech, waiting for Francis to answer. When the answer doesn't come, Arthur gets up, bumping into the table and knocking over the glass in an awful noise.

The mess in that kitchen is comparable only to the one in his head: it’s the first life that goes _so bad._ He has never reached such low points.

Whatever he does he just can't stop thinking about his future lives. How he’ll never be satisfied, what will happen if he can't find Francis again, if he does something wrong, if his current life is worse than the previous one.

Alcohol is the only way out from this nightmare of future lives.

 

_when we meet as adults_

_you’re always much more discerning_

 

“I’m sorry, Arthur, this isn’t working. I can't do this anymore,” Francine sighs and on the other end of the telephone Arthur can almost see her shaking her head wearily, with a look he has already seen in so many different lives.

The lump in his throat is surprising. He doesn't understand why he’s reacting that way: he always knew that, sooner or later, Francis would’ve found the courage to do this.

“Are you breaking up with me?” he finally manages to ask, with the most neutral voice he can find. This has never happened before. In the last two lives Francis stuck with him through every mistake and every mean action.

“I don’t need _this_ in my life, Arthur,” she sighs again and Arthur tries in vain to ignore his heart skipping a beat.

He asks himself once again why he’s so shocked: he acted like a complete fool for two lives and a half, he shouldn’t be surprised to find out what Francine thinks about this. He comes back home wasted or high two out of three times and what grown up woman would want to be with someone like him?

The truth is Arthur knows way to well Francine doesn’t deserve all that. Francine needs someone good enough for her, someone who can make her happy.

After all these lives, Arthur is starting to think that maybe all that _soulmates_ shit is meaningless. Maybe it’s just some dumb way to persuade himself that looking for Francis in every single life is really the right thing to do. A dumb way to stop being so scared of the future and the unknown. Maybe he had to asked himself _why do I always have to find him?_ to realize how fucked up this is.

“You can... you can still call me, if you need something,” Francine adds after a few seconds, while his heart sinks because of her kindness. “I’m still here for you, Arthur, it’s just that…” but Francine can’t even finish the sentence.

“It’s just that I’m not what you need, I get it,” he somehow manages to reply, trying to hold on to that guilt and that anger; trying to understand Francis and not to feel so alone and unwanted.

_It’s your fault she’s abandoning you_ whispers a voice in his head and as much as he tries to ignore that, the voice is still there, making fun of him. For the rest of that life.

 

_i don’t blame you_

 

The second time — the eleventh life — is so much easier: Francis is looking at him the same way Francine was looking at him, and Arthur already knows what’s going to happen. He knew days, weeks ago and he already knew he only had to wait to hear those words again.

“Arthur…" a single word, actually, and his name is enough. Enough to see, in front of him, another life of misery and sadness; a life that, strangely enough, he wanted for himself.

“I know, I get it. You’re breaking up with me,” Arthur finishes that sentence before Francis can, suddenly unable — after so much waiting — to bear what those words would do to his heart and his mind. Once again is his fault: the alcohol, the nights out, the smoking and all of the other horrible things Arthur did under the dread assault of one single thought: living other sixty years in that hell.

He lost count of how many years he has, in fact, lived. The sum should be something around eight hundred years, and he’s sure this is enough for all the problems his brain seems to have.

He’s not even sure he can call this _depression_ : it’s not like there’s someone who studied the case of another person forced to live infinite lives. It’s not like he could go talk to a specialist.

In fact Arthur can’t talk to anyone, can’t see anyone. He’s forced to keep everything inside, until he can’t anymore, until he can't put the pieces back together. How could he ask Francis to help him put the pieces back together?

“I can’t go on like this…” Francis whispers, lighting up the anger that lies in Arthur’s heart for one single moment. _Why do I always have to find him? It’s not fair, why do I always have to fight to be together, why do I always have to fight to find him, it shouldn’t be like this, it shouldn’t—_

In his previous life he blamed Francine, trying to hate her for leaving him, for not trying to fight. He understands now — he understood a long time ago — Francis isn’t the one to blame.

That his behavior is not only understandable but even right. Arthur wants nothing more than explain the meaning of his actions, explain what’s happening. If only he could explain, maybe Francis would understand and forgive him.

In eleven different lives, Arthur has never found someone so kind — even with all his flaws — and so good-natured. Arthur knows that one hundred future lives won’t be enough to forgive himself for hurting Francis.

 

_yet, always you forgive me_

 

He collapsed against the door hours ago and since that moment he hasn’t been able to move: climbing over the fence and walking towards the door was already too much for the state of his body. He knows he shouldn’t be there, he knows Francis would be mad to see him there. They broke up months ago and he isn’t even sure why he’s there.

He just knows that staying here, slumped against the door, is making him a tiny bit less sad, less tired, less lonely. And that’s the only thing that matters, now.

“Arthur?” a familiar sound abruptly ends his rest, as he’s forced to look around until he understands that the voice is coming from the window to his right; he sees Francis’ head and his questioning look and all he can do is getting off the ground, trying to run away. Trying, because he ends up falling spectacularly on the asphalt.

“Arthur!” Francis cries out, and when Arthur finally manages to get up, Francis is right there at his side, trying to help him.

“’m sorry— sorry, don't know why ‘m here, ‘m gonna go” he slurs somehow, trying to get away from him — because of course the last thing Francis wants is to have him there; and he’s probably thinking he’s insane and probably a stalker.

His efforts are useless against those piercing eyes.

“You can’t go anywhere like this. You’ll only hurt yourself,” Francis mumbles as he steady him and helps Arthur getting inside the house.

Arthur can't stop looking at him in disbelief and he certainly can’t stop wondering why Francis is so nice to him. “Shouldn’t be here” he slurs again, noticing with wonder the soft smile on Francis’ lips.

Once the door is closed again, Francis ignores his objections and focuses on the only thing that seems to matter to him: how can he make Arthur feel better? A nice warm bath, clean clothes, a hot tea and a lot of small things that are everything for Arthur.

Francis spends the rest of the night awake, taking care of him. Arthur doesn't understand why and he surely can't explain why Francis would want to be so kind after everything that happened between them. Arthur wants to yell, wants to tell him he shouldn’t be so nice and understanding, that he should only be mad; that he should kick him out of his house.

The truth is that all he can do is sink in Francis’ empathy and slowly drown in his kindness.

 

_as if you understand what’s going on_

 

“Do you ever wonder what happens after death?” Francine asks out of nowhere, over the peaceful silence of their living room. Arthur certainly didn’t expect that question. Not when everything his wife should be thinking of is the pleasant warmth of the fireplace and the book she’s reading.

There's a part of him that wants to laugh at the question. _Does he ever wonder what happens after death?_ That is the one, constant thought that has stuck with him for thirteen different lives. _Does he ever wonder what happens after death?_ Does he _have_ to wonder what happens after death, even when he’s so happy and serene?

“Sometimes. I think everybody does that,” he answers, trying to conceal what he really thinks. Francis settles back in his arms, closing the book and extending her legs towards the fireplace.

“It’d be nice if there was life, after death,” she whispers after a few seconds, while Arthur’s heart skips a beat. “It’d be nice to go back to Earth and live again. Find you again.”

Arthur tries to hide his trembling hands but Francine still turns towards him; he can’t help but wonder, for the first time in thirteen lives, if what happens to him happens to Francis too. What if he should simply have asked?

“Why do you think there’s another life after death?” Arthur asks, his voice shaking, trying to understand if he should tell his wife what’s happening or if he’s only desperate as usual.

“You’ll think I’m stupid,” she laughs, snuggling against him as Arthur holds her in his arms. “Sometimes I feel like I’ve already done certain things, like I’ve already seen certain things. And sometimes I feel like I’ve known you for more than these past fifteen years.”

Arthur’s hands are still shaking and he just can’t stop his body. Francine seems to understand and he doesn’t care that it’s only a partial understanding. “Maybe you’re right. I mean, maybe there’s really another life, after death.”

Francine looks back at him, with one of those kind smiles that Arthur loves more than everything. “If I’m right this means we keep finding each other.”

His hands are shaking even more, now, when she looks so confident and so happy. He always knew Francis would’ve done the same, but _hearing_ those words it’s so much better.

And while Arthur tries to hide what he’s feeling, Francine smiles and kisses him — glad to have introduced the chance of a future made of different lives, all spent with Arthur.

 

_and you’re making up for all the lifetimes_

_in which one of us doesn’t exist_

 

Arthur remembers one particular conversation of his past life — he remembers almost every conversation he had with Francis, but this one? This one he can't forget.

He remembers his wife’s words like he heard them yesterday and no matter how hard he tries, he can’t stop thinking about them.

_You know I’ll always love you, even when I’m not with you_ and he can't stop thinking about this. He hasn’t been able to stop since he understood that in this life Francis wasn't gonna be with him.

Arthur spent the first sixty years of his life looking for him, like he did in his past lives; but hope is long gone and the thought of searching the world again to no avail is simply too much.

He wonders if there are other lives, other universes where Francis is the one looking for him. Arthur knows he can't choose the answer but he really does hope that’s not the case. The despair he feels in this life and the despair he already felt in another similar life are something he wouldn't wish for anyone in the whole world, let alone for Francis.

It’s better if Arthur is the one putting up with this burden.

If Francis was here, Arthur knows this way too well, he’d slap him. He knows exactly what he'd say: he’d urge him to find someone else in this life, he’d say Arthur should be happy without him.

Arthur sighs, rolling in the bed of the tiny apartment that has been his home for the last two years, asking himself once again if he should go out there and look for Francis. As usual the exhaustion prevails and all he can do is reach for the half-empty cognac bottle on the nightstand.

Francis would slap him, if he could see him like this. The alcohol, the way he’s living, the life he doesn't have the strength to live, the things he doesn't have the strength to do and the possibilities he doesn’t have the strength to seize.

Francis would say that Arthur isn't like that. That he has so many things to see and to do, that ruining his life just because _he isn't there_ it's not worth it.

_It doesn't matter if I’m not here_ , Arthur can almost hear Francis whispering near his ear; he can almost feel his fingers brushing trough his hair.

With all his kindness and his cleverness, Francis never understood that Arthur could never be happy without him.

 

_and the ones where we just, barely, never meet_

 

In the fifteenth life Francis exists and Arthur thinks he’s even more gorgeous than before. He saw him six or seven times already but until now he never managed to talk to him. Or even to look at him without the cover provided by a book and a huge cup of tea.

“Hi,” he blurts out of nowhere, cutting off Francis who was talking and laughing with a couple of guys — more handsome and buffer than him, and this isn’t really helping.

Francis looks at him for a few seconds, with a puzzled look, and it’s pretty clear he's trying to remember if he has already seen him somewhere or— “... Hi?” or not.

Suddenly Arthur forgets everything he meant to say, everything he rehearsed in the past weeks — going over and over every word until he felt a tiny bit more sure he could make an impression. 

After fifteen different lives, he hoped he had enough experience to know how to face the first meeting. It turns out that’s not the case. It turns out more lives go by, more difficult the first meeting is.

He opens his mouth, licks his lips, swallows loudly and a weird noise comes from his throat — like an animal dying. The others are laughing wildly and even Francis seems amused, still looking at him with a puzzled look.

_Amazing_ , and that's all Arthur can think, _now he’s gonna think I’m a complete moron. Come on, Arthur, pull yourself together, you've faced way worse._

He opens his mouth once again and once again there’s the weird sound. At this point one of Francis' friend is laughing so loud he can hardly stand up and Arthur has no choice but blush and try to decide wether to stay or to run.

He runs away, obviously, without saying anything else and trying not to think about what just happened. About how bad he looked in front of the one person he should’ve charm with just one sentence.

Months go by before Arthur manages to set aside his wounded pride and tries to find Francis again. Months go by before he decides to try and talk to him again, determined to do things right.

But Francis isn’t there anymore and it doesn’t matter that Arthur spends the rest of his life looking for him — because he saw him in this life, he knows Francis exists! —, he can't find him again.

Arthur leaves his fifteen life knowing he wasted it because of his pride. 

 

_i hate those. i prefer the ones in which you kill me_

 

“I’m sorry, Arthur, I just can't go out with you now.” A single sentence is enough to throw all of his hopes and fantasies in a not-so-much hypothetical dumpster.

He spent months and months of his sixteenth life trying to convince himself he could do this, he could talk to Francis, he could ask her out.

They go to the same college, they see each other almost every day, they already talked a few times. She often looked at him with that soft smile of hers, she has often been kind to him and Arthur can’t help but being hopeful.

It’s hard not to be hopeful. In sixteen different lives — aside from the ones in which Arthur didn’t find him — Francis always reciprocated his feelings. Always.

And now Francis is looking at him with those sad eyes, probably only because she noticed his misery. She’s looking at him without knowing what to say — and Arthur knows, Arthur understands her so well he's almost feeling guilty now.

That’s why he tries to say something to make her stop feeling guilty — he loves her too much to hurt her, after sixteen lives he stopped trying to fight this — and to reassure her. “I just wanted to do something, it’s not like I care about going out with you.”

The thing is, those words sound so much worse said aloud.

He only needs one second to realize he said something incredibly stupid and incredibly rude: Francis opens her mouth to reply, closes it again, opens it again and tells him to fuck off in the rudest way she can find.

Arthur is frozen in the middle of the hallway and can't move, too busy wondering how the fuck those words came out of his mouth.

In the fifteenth life he ruined everything because he couldn’t talk, now he ruined everything because he talked too much. Just because he said something he doesn't think at all.

Obviously Francis doesn't want to see him anymore, doesn’t want to talk to him anymore for the rest of their college years. After weeks of failed attempts — and answers and cursing he'd really like to forget — Arthur decides to stop trying.

He never thought there was the possibility of Francis not reciprocating his feelings — somehow even worse than the lives in which Francis doesn’t exist.

Now Arthur knows what he should really be afraid of.

 

_but when all’s said and done,_

_i’d surrender to you in other ways_

 

Maybe this is why in the next life — the seventeenth life — Arthur doesn't dare to approach Francis. Not being with him because he’s a coward is way better that not being with him because Francis hates him.

Isolation and solitude are a way better company than the hatred he had in his last life, there’s nothing that could change his mind, no, thank you very much.

This doesn’t prevent him from spending months— after he found Francis — watching him secretly and looking like a fool in the attempt.

Francis always looks like he’s having a lot of fun looking at Arthur blushing wildly and looking away every time he realizes Francis noticed him.

“Buy me a coffee.” Arthur looks up and there’s Francis with his usual bright smile. Francis, who decided to talk to him. Francis, who’s obviously hitting on him. Francis, who isn’t laughing like in the fifteenth life and doesn’t hate him like in the sixteenth.

Francis, who's waiting for an answer. Oh, fuck: Francis is waiting for an answer.

“… A coffee?” and this is everything he manages to put together after five awkward minutes of silence.

“Yes, a coffee. Or a cappuccino, a smoothie, a chocolate chip cookie,” Francis laughs — probably because Arthur looks dumb as fuck — and sits in front of him. “Buy me whatever you want.”

There's a part of him that wants to make Francis go away, that doesn’t want to take a chance and end up hurting again. There are so many ways this thing could go wrong and Arthur knows he's a coward. Maybe not knowing, not risking would be better.

“You can have anything you want,” he babbles despite everything — blushing wildly when he realize what he just said — to a smiling Francis.

Arthur knows he’s trained for _all this_. He knows how Francis acts, what he’s gonna do and say for the next ten minutes. He saw this happen so many times it’d be impossible to forget.

So he lets Francis handle it, trusting his skills and the way he can always make things right. Hoping his silence will help everything go right.

Despite all of his fears and his worries, after three hours Francis is still interested in him — so interested he’s actually smiling and laughing at his not-very-funny jokes.

Arthur wonders again and again how could he have thought to live without him in his life — without his voice, without his laugh, without his eyes.

Maybe he won’t have to ask himself that question again.

 

_even though each time_

_i know i’ll see you again_

 

In the eighteenth life Arthur is sure Francis doesn’t exist: he spends his first thirty-seven years of his life looking for him and he feels the same way he felt in the two lives Francis wasn’t there. This will just be another wasted life.

So he throws in the towel long before his usual, goes back to London and decides to finish his life there, trying not to think too much about Francis.

It takes other two years to finally try the French restaurant across the street: he'd like to avoid every possible thing that could remind him of Francis, but everybody seems to love that restaurant and being scared to try it because of some stupid memories is just so dumb. He decided he’s gonna try it and nothing and no one will stop him.

The thing is a lot less immediate than he thought: in the last few years the _Epicure_ became one of the most famous and most booked restaurant in London and there are month of reservations before him. In a nutshell, after spending two years fighting with that stupid fear, he's being told that he’ll be able to face it in, more or less, eleven months and a few weeks.

After a long argument on the phone with whoever was one the other side, Arthur throws the damned device to the wall on other side of the room. There's no way he’ll give up that easily.

So he gets out of the house five minutes later, running under the rain without an umbrella until he gets across the street and enters the restaurant —through the hotel entrance, ignoring the concierge's yells and the closure times posted on the door.

“I’m sorry, monsieur, we’re close until seven.” An amused voice, welcoming him inside.

There's a woman sitting at one of the tables, a woman who's looking at him with a smirk and this is enough to make him uncomfortable.

“And you're dragging mud all over my floor,” she adds after a few seconds. Arthur glances at his feet before he decides he really doesn't care and he moves towards her.

And then, it hits him. He looks at her for what feels like hours, watching closely the subtle wrinkles near her eyes — she must be in her forty —, her smile and her blond hair pulled up in a loose bun.

“… Francine?” he whispers when he finally manages to talk again. Is it possible that woman really is Francine?

“Yes? Do I know you?” She looks puzzled and Arthur’s heart skips a few beats. He can’t believe how dumb he was, how much time he wasted, how foolish he was to stop looking.

She has always been there and now that he knows he’ll never stop looking again.

 

_i always wonder: is this the last time?_

 

The next life goes by way more smoothly than Arthur expected: once again Francis is the one making the first move — even though Arthur already found him months before — and he is obviously very glad to go out with him a first time, a second one, a third one; to invite him to his place, make love all night long, keep dating for fourteen months, move in together, live together for three years and then finally ask Francis to marry him.

His thoughts still keep him up at night, even in this perfect life. It doesn’t matter how happy he is right now, when he feels the Francis’ quiet breathing against his chest.

What if this is the last life? What happens next? He can’t help but wonder with fear — and he laughs as he recalls a life when all he wanted was to end all of this — what’s gonna happen then.

There’s no way of knowing when this will end. If this will end. He thought about asking someone but he’s too afraid to do it.

Francis moves slightly in his sleep, cuddling up against his side; Arthur holds him tightly and brushes those golden hair with his fingertips.

Francis’ presence is helpful, sure, it has been helpful for nineteen different lives and this will probably never change. It’s not enough, of course, but Arthur knows he can face those thoughts if Francis is there for him. If Francis lightly kisses his shoulder and smiles with that lovely, sleepy look. “Are you awake?”

“No, go back to sleep,” Arthur replies with a smile that widens when Francis sighs dramatically.

“You just answered me, that means you’re awake. I know you love my blond hair but that doesn’t mean I’m dumb, you know that, right?”

“Oh, I know, I know,” Arthur laughs and Francis decides to punish him with a heavy tickle session — that only ends when Arthur manages to pin him down on the bed and kiss him.

Francis is smiling against his lips and he has that look on his face — that look that makes Arthur’s heart skip a beat or two every single time. “I can stay awake with you, if you can’t sleep.”

“No need to do that, you’re tired,” Arthur replieswithout a second thought — Francis needs his eight hours of sleep at night to avoid being on the verge of death the next day. He’s not gonna get in the way of his beauty sleep.

He knows all of this as well as he knows Francis will stay awake with him, doesn’t matter what Arthur says to convince him. Francis smiles again and Arthur can’t help but wonder: will there be a day when he won’t see that smile again?

 

_is that really you?_

 

In twenty different lives Arthur has always recognized Francis. He saw millions of men and women that looked exactly like the love of his life and yet he always managed to find the real Francis. When it’s not because of his physical appearance, it’s because of his name. When it’s not because of his name, it’s because of his behavior. When it’s not because of his behavior, it’s because how he acts around Arthur.

In this life Arthur finds himself somehow lost, incapable of knowing if the person in front of him is really Francis.

There was a woman who looked exactly like Francine and years later turned out to be someone else. Arthur always felt something strange but he simply thought it to be the result of having lived twenty different lives.

And then… if there’s something Arthur knows, no matter how bad things are between them, is that Francis would never cheat on him. It’s something that simply wouldn’t happen.

So that woman — the woman who cheated on him — can’t be Francine.

Arthur’s entire existence is shattered into a thousand pieces after that discovery. Seven years thinking he already found Francine and suddenly she’s not _his_ Francine and he has nothing.

He never thought something like this could happen, he never thought there was the possibility of him not recognizing Francis. Now he knows he’s been a fool.

He knows how much Francis can change. Francis changed hair color a thousand times in twenty different lives, why wouldn’t he change anything else? Why wouldn’t he change his own name?

Arthur should be able to recognize him from his behavior but this life is the proof that maybe Arthur is not as capable as he thought.

Can something like this happen again? How can he go look for Francis knowing he could be mistaken again? Knowing he could waste years with someone else again?

The alternative is not taking the risk and live, like he already did, knowing he’s giving up on her. Knowing he’s deliberately choosing to live a life without her. A lonely, sad life.

He choose to look for her, obviously. He choose to take the risk and spend another life like that. This time though, Arthur has another fear to face.

 

_and what if you’re perfectly happy without me?_

 

The airport is more crowded than usual and Arthur, forced to sit between a couple of screaming children, can’t help but sigh loudly. On his shoulders, the burden of another life without Francis weighs more than he’d like. He’s been looking for him for ten, twelve years and he’s determined not to lose hope.

“Honey!” Arthur would recognize Francine’s familiar voice everywhere so he turns, almost shaking, hoping that’s not an hallucination.

Francine is there and she’s smiling, as beautiful as always, and Arthur can’t help but smile back and get up from his seat, walking slowly towards her. Maybe she finally remembers? Maybe she finally remembers all those previous lives?

And then Francine is wrapped in a hug and Arthur has to look another men holding the love of his life. “I’ve missed you so much,” as she kisses him again and again and laughs when the other man tighten his hug. “How was your work business trip?”

The man smiles and brushes her hair with his fingertips, holding her with the other arm; Arthur can’t help but wonder if Francine prefers someone who can hold her like that. If the way he touched her wasn’t right, if the way he did everything wasn’t what Francis really wanted.

The other man is huge: taller, buffer, with large shoulders and everything. In his arms Francine looks so petite — and Arthur watch closely as she laugh, amused.

Another rush of panic goes through his body: is this the type of man Francine always wanted? His exact opposite? And if that’s the case, then why…?

“Let’s go home, the kids are waiting for you,” she murmurs with a smile that’s almost too happy, loud enough for Arthur to hear those words. Kids? They have kids?

The idea of overlooking that sounds nice, for about three seconds. He’s sure he could make her fall in love with him. Francis would leave that guy and then they’ll live together, in another life, and everything would be perfect.

And then, those three interminable seconds vanish abruptly. Francine is happy with another man, Francine is happy, Francine has children, Francine has a family and she doesn’t need someone to ruin everything she has. Not even if that someone can’t live without her.

There’s another thing Arthur never feared before: what if Francis is happy with someone else?

 

_ah, but I don’t blame you;_

_i’ll never burn as brilliantly as you._

 

The singer’s voice washes over him like warm water on his skin. It wraps around him and holds him in a way Arthur didn’t think possible — even though he has listened to Francis singing since their first life in so many different moments.

Francis moves on the stage like he was born on it, drawing the looks of all the audience, even the ones who aren’t there for him. Arthur can only look at him and let his voice carry him for the rest of the night.

He met Francis when he was only performing once a week in a tiny local club, when he was still fighting to stand out, when he wasn’t a big international star, touring the world with billions of fan and a ridiculous amount of awards.

He’s glad to say Francis didn’t change at all. He’s still the same person he always knew, they still do everything they did before. They often regret the times when they could go eat in a random restaurant without being followed.

Arthur doesn’t mind, really. He had to go through lives without Francis and a couple of pushy reporters are nothing compared. And, all things considered, he doesn’t mind being recognized as Francis’ one and only partner.

He shakes out of his thoughts when he hears the crowd cheering and Francis — maybe panting just a bit — thanking everyone _and more than anyone my source of inspiration, my partner, the love of my life._ Arthur, as usual, blushes and tries to hide in his corner behind the stage — as though someone could see him.

When Francis wraps up the show and gets back in the backstage, the first thing he does as usual is taking Arthur’s hand and pulling him in a kiss.

As usual, Arthur hugs him and compliments him for his beautiful voice, for his presence on stage, for his lovely show. As usual, Francis laughs and tells him how much he loves him.

As usual Arthur thanks God he was lucky enough, at least in this life, to be at his side.

 

_it’s only fair that i should be the one to chase you_

_across ten, twenty-five, a hundred lifetimes_

 

During the course of his lives, other things that Arthur never thought would happen actually happen.

There’s a life — the thirty-second life — in which Arthur is fifteen years older than Francis and, for sheer luck, his math teacher in high school. Francis spends months flirting with him and somehow Arthur manages to survive until Francis is old enough. When Francis shows up at his house and kisses him, Arthur isn’t able to say no again.

There’s another life — the forty-sixth life —in which is the other way around: Francis is older than him and of course this isn’t enough for Arthur to give up. He tries and tries and tries until things go exactly how they should go.

There’s a life in which they finally get to form a proper family — Francine always wanted kids and Arthur is glad to please her — and their kids grow up happy and healthy and at the end of this life, Arthur is sure he hasn’t felt _anything_ like that before.

Arthur’s existence is made of ten, twenty, thirty, forty, eighty, one hundred different lives. All different, some of them good and some of them awful, some of them amazing and some of them definitely weird.

Arthur learns to seize only the good things of this _gift_ , learns that if he make this effort nothing can go wrong. Happiness always come for them, one way or another. One life or another.

There’s a life in which Arthur decides to write a book about his experiences and it doesn’t matter that the whole world — Francis too — thinks it’s a fantasy novel. Being able to do such a thing it’s enough — and even in his future lives he keeps a copy of that book, just to be sure he never forgets anything.

Remembering is a key part of his existence.

 

_until I find the one_

_where you’ll return to me_

 

“Arthur!” There’s a voice behind him, in the exact moment the underground’s doors are about to close. “Arthur, wait!” The same voice again, just when Arthur is about to hop on the train.

He’s too tired to do that, though, so he stops and looks back — like he doesn’t know who’s standing behind him after one hundred and twenty-two lives — towards Francis.

“I remember!” Arthur freezes when he hears those words, unsure of their meaning, unsure of what they could really mean for him, for Francis, for their world. “I remember the other lives,” Francis whispers, in front of him, before throwing his arms around him and kissing him.

“You remember…?” Arthur finally manages to ask, with just enough breath to utter those words. Francis’ smile is enough. “I remember you”.

And Arthur isn’t afraid anymore


End file.
